


Burn That Broken Bed

by hannibalsredsweater



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alana is oblivious, Cannibalism, Chest Hair, Dubious Consent, F/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, everyone is obsessed with Will Graham, free-range rude for dinner, hannibloom, planned unplanned pregnancy, post-coital conversations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsredsweater/pseuds/hannibalsredsweater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is always several moves ahead of Alana Bloom, in a game that she doesn't even know she's playing.</p><p>So bad at summaries. My apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been quite a while since I've written anything, let alone fanfiction of any kind. I'm new to the Hannibal fandom, but not to the show, so here's to hoping that my characterizations aren't terribly out of character! I got the itch to write and couldn't help myself. I'm not entirely sure where this story is going (if it goes anywhere at all), so any comments or suggestions are welcome.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The title comes from the song "Burn That Broken Bed" by Iron & Wine. It was playing while I was writing and the mood seemed to fit, but If anyone can come up with a better title, let me know!

He notices the changes in her body, even before she does. There is a discernable flush to her face and her décolletage, not unlike the flush that spreads across her milky skin when she is aroused, although it is much more subtle. He also notices the barely perceptible increase in her heart rate, the soft flesh laying over her jugular pulsating stronger and quicker than normal.

And then, of course, there is the change in her scent. Her scent is different now, not completely unfamiliar, and definitely not unpleasant. The lilac still lingers, but now it mingles with the tiniest hints of salt and iron.

When he was a medical student, his keen sense of smell was invaluable. He could often diagnose a patient by their scent alone. Infections smell sour, with minute variations depending on whether they are bacterial or viral. Cancer smells bittersweet and slightly acrid. Even now, though he fixes minds instead of bodies, it is easy for him to detect illness in those around him without trying. 

But she is definitely not ill. As much as he wants to confirm his suspicions, it would be rude, he thinks in amusement, to inquire about the state of her uterus. He decides that the best course of action would be to let her tell him herself.

\---

Even though Will’s been exonerated by the Chesapeake Ripper himself, she knows in her gut that Will is dangerous. He tried to kill Hannibal, for fuck’s sake, albeit via proxy. And now, he’s resuming his therapy with Hannibal. Hannibal Lecter is her mentor, her friend, her …boyfriend? No, the term “boyfriend” definitely doesn't fit with whatever Hannibal is to her at the moment. And the term “lover” is too cheesy, too saccharine. Regardless, she almost lost him once to Will’s instability, and she doesn't even want to think about what she would do if she lost him for good.

She tiredly pours herself a pint of beer to go along with her dinner, and then sits down at her dining table. Her house is too big, too quiet, too lonely, and she finds herself glancing at her phone. With a sigh, she checks her messages again. Nope, no word from Hannibal. He’s an adult, and she’s an adult, and adults are busy. And besides, she’s not about to get hung up on that fact that she hasn't heard from him since yesterday evening.

Picking up her glass, she studies the foamy head of her current favorite IPA. It’s got a good color, a warm reddish brown, almost mahogany in hue. She inhales and begins to bring the glass to her lips, but stops abruptly, the hoppy smell of alcohol making her stomach churn. She sets her full pint glass down in front of her with a loud thud, the rosy brown liquid spilling over.

Maybe she’s not so hungry after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is always several moves ahead of Alana Bloom, in a game that she doesn't even know she's playing.
> 
> So bad at summaries. My apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any clue as to what I'm trying achieve with this story. My original intention was to write something fluffy and happy because I love Hannibal and Alana together. But the more I thought about it and tried to get in to Hannibal's head....nope. Nope, nope, nope. No fluff here.
> 
> Here's another little snippet of what I have so far!

It’s a morning just like any other morning, except for the fact that she feels as if she hasn't slept a wink. She woke up feeling quite queasy, but figured that a quick breakfast would fix that.

Wrong.

She’s rarely ever sick, but for some reason, she can’t keep her morning coffee down, let alone her sugary, over-sized, blueberry muffin. She frowns, the taste in her mouth bitter, despite her best efforts to brush the bile away, the minty tingle coating her tongue. She didn't think it was possible to think of toothpaste as nauseating, but there’s a first time for everything.

Maybe there’s a stomach bug going around. Or the Flu. Either way, without her coffee, she can be rather cranky. And no one’s going to like her when’s she’s cranky. She pulls into a parking spot, turns off the car, and rests her head on her steering wheel. She wishes for a few more hours of sleep and bubblegum flavored toothpaste, but realizes that if she doesn't head inside soon, she won’t have enough time to get sufficiently ready to cover Will’s classes, on top of her own. 

Once she gets to her office and gets her day started in earnest, she’ll feel better, she thinks. 

She hopes.

\---

He goes throughout his day as usual, seeing his patients in his office, nodding at the right moments, offering insights that are perhaps unconventional, but helpful nonetheless. They never say anything of interest, their worries and anxieties rather banal in comparison to complexities that are Will Graham. 

He can picture the look in Will’s eyes when he learns of not only his relationship with Alana Bloom, but of any product that may come from that relationship. He can see the hairs stand on the back of his neck, the rigid composure of his jaw, his teeth bare. He can almost smell the anger emanating off of Will’s skin, scalding waves of rage and betrayal that smell like charred wood and vinegar.

He smiles to himself at the thought of serving Will Graham a dish that is best served cold and without warning. But first, he must continue his seduction of Alana Bloom, which is proving to be an easy task, as well as a pleasurable one. He does care for her, in his own way. She is after all an intelligent woman, an eminent psychiatrist in her own right, and a trusted colleague. She is also, almost certainly, carrying his child.

Perhaps, in another lifetime, in another place, he could even call what he feels for Alana, “love.” But for now, he only has one end in sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is always several moves ahead of Alana Bloom, in a game that she doesn't even know she's playing.
> 
> So bad at summaries. My apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some mentions of cannibalism in this chapter. If that bothers you, I think you might be in the wrong fandom, dear.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Later that evening, she’s on her way to Hannibal’s house for dinner. She feels immediate relief wash over her when she hears her phone ring, when she sees that it’s him. Lovesick, much? She does her best to sound cool and collected when she speaks with him, not wanting to betray her sudden giddiness at his desire to see her. She’s never giddy. Happy, yes. But giddy?

He greets her at the door with kiss and lets her in. When he extends his arm to take her coat from her, he finds himself reaching out to steady her as she sways on her feet instead.

“Alana, are you unwell?” Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow in concern as he holds her upright in his arms.

She shakes her head as if to clear it and sighs, “Just a little light-headed. I’m fine.” 

He eyes her warily, prepared and ready to catch her if her gait should falter once again as he leads her to a chair in his sitting room. “Alana, please sit down while I get you a glass of water.”

She acquiesces, sinking into the heavy couch, and closes her eyes against the nauseating spin of the room.

He returns shortly and sits down next to her. 

“Alana.”

“Hmm?” She opens her eyes, her blue irises darker in the dim light.

“Please drink this. You look rather pale.” The concern in his eyes is still there as he hands her the glass of water.

“Thank you.” She sips the water gingerly, almost worried that the all-too-familiar nausea will rise up in her throat and embarrass her in front of Hannibal. She scrunches her nose in surprise and looks up at him, the effervescent bubbles tickling her throat. “Sparkling water?”

He nods and smiles softly, “It will help settle your stomach. It was complaining rather loudly.” 

She looks down and blushes, “Well, you’re right, as always. I haven’t had much to eat today.” 

Hannibal clucks his tongue like a mother hen, “We’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?”

\---

She nurses her second glass of sparkling water as she watches him cook. Whatever it is he’s flipping and sautéing in one of his expensive pans smells absolutely divine. And the view from her seat at the kitchen island isn't too shabby either. She lets her eyes wander along the long, lean lines of his back, his muscles moving skillfully under the white fabric of his shirt. A man that is unbelievably attractive and can cook? A girl could get definitely get used to this.

“Would you set the table, please?” Hannibal glances over his shoulder at Alana, who seems to have regained some color in her cheeks. 

Although it is a “simple” dinner of pan-seared calf’s liver drizzled with a shallot and pomegranate reduction, Hannibal’s plates their dinner with his usual artistic flair. Alana only half-notices the lack of beer or wine at the table before she begins to eat. She’s definitely regained her appetite and her stomach growls in anticipation.

As they eat, Alana asks Hannibal about his day, the sounds of Vivaldi echoing softly in the background. When he asks her about hers, she talks about her classes, mostly, careful to omit the parts that involve her dry heaving in the ladies room. 

Hannibal dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin and swallows before speaking. “I was hoping you would tell me why you haven’t eaten today.”

She winces, her hope that he had forgotten about her little dizzy spell earlier dashed. She knows very well that he’s not the type to forget such an important detail, but she really doesn't want him to worry about her. He has plenty to worry about already. “I was…busy. I couldn't really find the time to stop and grab a bite.” A lie and she knows it. And he probably knows it, too.

He tilts his head slightly and considers her answer. His gaze never leaves her eyes. “You should really take better care of yourself.”

\---

Beer was out of the question. As was the red wine reduction he customarily pairs with this particular dish. The “calf’s liver” he had on hand, courtesy of an overzealous socialite he had the displeasure of being introduced to at a social gathering last week, fit his dinner requirements perfectly. Liver, regardless of its origins, is rich in iron, folate, and other trace minerals. It’s a complete protein with a high caloric value, all things he knows will benefit Alana, whether she is aware of it or not. 

Hannibal washes dishes contentedly, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows. He places a surprisingly tender kiss on Alana’s cheek as he hands her a dinner plate to dry.

He hadn't anticipated that his plan to claim Alana as his own would work so well or so quickly. He calculated that it would take a few months for her body to adjust to the lack of synthetic hormones, for her body to respond to what he had in mind. She obviously hadn't noticed yet, and he didn't think she would ever come to the realization that this was all a part of his design. 

Will Graham had found a way to hurt him. Now, it was his turn to return the favor.

It was really too easy to enter her home at night, to walk through her dark home as she slept, and tamper with the contents of her medicine cabinet. 

By his careful estimation, it would be a week before she would come to the conclusion that something was not quite right.

He had a week to secure her loyalty to him and to erase all doubts in her mind about Will Graham.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is always several moves ahead of Alana Bloom, in a game that she doesn't even know she's playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of updates recently. Real life and writer's block do not mix.
> 
> From the beginning, I didn't want to tie this fic too closely to any one episode, but this scene is loosely placed after the sexies in "Su-sakana". 
> 
> Also, this is un-betaed, so if there are any glaring errors, help a lady out and let me know. Thanks!

She wakes up to his warm breath on her skin as he places slow kisses on the length of her bare back. It’s not quite morning yet, but it’s Saturday now. She turns to face him, smiling at the realization that neither of them has to work today.

“You’re awake,” she whispers.

A lazy grin appears on his face. She doesn’t recall ever seeing him this relaxed or content. For as long as she’s known him, he’s been the picture of unwavering composure, never giving away a hint of what he might be thinking at any given moment. She feels honored, knowing that he can let his guard down around her. She’s knows that although he is well-known in psychiatric circles and in the arts community, there are very few people he would consider friends. Brushing a few errant locks of his sandy blonde hair off his forehead, she silently thanks her lucky stars that she’s the one he’s chosen to open up to in this way.

He sighs heavily and leans into her caress. “So are you. I trust that you are feeling better?” His voice is a low rumble, still thick and hoarse from sleep.

“Much better.” She traces her fingers along the sharp angles of his face, appreciating the creases around his eyes, the warmth of his skin, the smile that still grace his sensuous lips. Oh, how she loves those lips and all they can do. It’s amazing how restorative sex can be, how worry, tension, and even the feeling of being a little under the weather can melt away in the arms of Hannibal. She turns her attention to his arms between them, tracing the angry, red scars on his wrists. Although the slits are healing, Alana frowns, her mind returning to what seems to be their favorite topic of conversation. 

“Hannibal?” She bites her lip, unsure if she wants to ruin this moment with the thoughts that burn on the tip of her tongue. “I’m not complaining, but part of me suspects we ended up here to avoid where our conversation was going.”

He shifts onto his back and sighs, wrapping an arm around her bare shoulders. “As long as you’re not complaining.” 

She draws small circles on his chest, her fingers toying with the wiry curls that cover the skin there. “Too much has happened for us not to talk about this, however pleasant the distraction.”

“Well, I’m recovering from all that’s happened. So is Will. So are you.” He runs his hand along her arm, enjoying the coolness of her skin beneath his fingertips. “I would change many things, but not that we ended up here.” He pauses. “Or that Will is back in therapy.”

She sighs heavily, feeling slightly exasperated. Propping herself up on her elbow, she looks at Hannibal, making sure he can see the brief glint of anger in her eyes. “I can’t imagine anything stranger or more concerning than seeing you back in therapy with Will Graham.”

“Is it really so strange?”

Images of a tightened noose around Hannibal’s neck, his weakened body on display, blood pouring from the wounds on his arms flash vividly in her mind. She can’t process why or how Hannibal is still attempting to help Will. “He tried to murder you.”

“Do you know why Will tried to kill me?” Even though Alana says that she has walked away completely from Will, he knows that a part of her still clings to the hope that he can be saved. “It wasn’t to avenge Beverly Katz’s death. It was to prevent yours. He was protecting you in the only way he felt he had left to him.”

She looks down and away from Hannibal, the truth of his words ringing loud and clear in her ears. Yes, Will was and is unstable. Yes, he’s dangerous. But there is still some good left inside of him, no matter how twisted and damaged it is. “I’m afraid Will opened a door inside himself, and no one knows if it’s closed again. Especially not Will.”

She’s right where he wants her. She can see the hope that maybe, just maybe, Hannibal can help Will. This hope is like the proverbial light at the end of a dark tunnel, only this light is in reality a speeding train. He runs his fingers through the loose locks of dark hair that frame her face. “Then it’s healthy he’s back in therapy. With a good psychiatrist.” 

A self-satisfied smirk dances on his lips. He takes the opportunity to guide her onto her back, his body gliding over hers in one practiced motion.

Alana gasps in surprise, enjoying the sudden turn of events. The weight of his body on hers is thrilling, one of his muscled thighs pushing her knees apart, his mouth hot on her neck. She pulls their hips closer together, wanting, needing, more contact with his body. She shifts beneath him, running her legs against his.

She feels him begin to work his way down her body, his mouth kissing and nibbling at the soft flesh of her breasts, the taut skin of her stomach, and the small dip of her navel, before he settles in between her thighs. Her body begins to shiver in anticipation, picturing in her mind what his lips look like when his kisses the most intimate parts of her. 

When she feels his warm tongue begin to lap up the wetness that’s collecting in her folds, she can’t help but squeeze her eyes shut, the sensations overwhelming.

“Oh, Hannibal.”

She lets her hands wander to the top of his head. She tangles her fingers in his hair, needing to hold on to something, anything, as the pressure builds inside her. Her hips buck involuntarily against his mouth, her head thrown back against the down pillows of Hannibal’s bed.

Another moan escapes her throat when she feels his hands curl under her thighs, holding them firmly against each side of his face. The speed of his tongue on her clit increases, firm and gentle, the swirling bringing her closer and closer to the edge, an edge that she’s more than willing to throw herself off of. She loses it when he groans against her, the vibrations alone pushing her over. 

She cries out, her breath coming in shuddering gasps as her orgasm rolls through her body in waves. Despite his grip on her hips, she bucks against him as she feels his tongue continuing to slowly tease the last aftershocks of her climax out of her.

She’s no longer teetering on the edge of that cliff. She’s in free-fall, falling for Hannibal hard and fast. She only hopes that he will be there to catch her.

\---

He knows that she is grieving the loss of Will Graham, mourning the fact that she had to walk away from him. Hannibal has been and continues to be a source of comfort and stability for Alana. That’s not to say that he doubts the sincerity of her feelings for him. She cares for him more than she knows, of that he’s sure, which is to his advantage. He understands that the stressors, the pressures of the Ripper case are creating hairline fractures in her ability to remain balanced. The connection, the relationship she craves from him, has been born out of that very need for balance and stability. He’s almost amused at how similar she and Will Graham are in that respect. She rejected Will’s romantic overtures, citing that exact same reason, yet fails to see it in herself.

In the quiet of his bedroom, Hannibal strokes her hair as she sleeps soundly at his side, her small hand on his chest. Moments like these are the calm before the storm, a storm and a reckoning that he sees coming from miles away. But he is most definitely prepared to battle against these forces, knowing very well what weapons he has in his arsenal.

She won’t see, or better yet, refuse to see, the truth before it is too late. He cares for Alana, he truly does. Be he also has no qualms in using her as a means to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of loosing steam with this fic and aren't completely sure if I'm going to keep working on it. I reaaaalllyy don't want to abandon it all together, but I want to focus on some new Hannibloom or make myself a tasty Hannibal/Alana/Will sandwich...oh the possibilities!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is always several moves ahead of Alana Bloom, in a game that she doesn't even know she's playing.
> 
> So bad at summaries. My apologies.
> 
> This work is unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

Applesauce is practically vibrating with energy, dragging Alana outside as soon as she manages to open the front door. The dog barks happily and runs, pulling the leash taut in her owner's hand.

"Applesauce, sit!" Alana shouts breathlessly after being pulled halfway down the snow-covered walkway leading up to her front porch. Surprisingly, the dog listens and sits in the middle of the walkway, her tail wagging happily. Alana kneels down by Applesauce, moving in to scratch her behind the ears.

"Who's a good girl, honey? You're such a good girl!" In a high-pitched, sing-songy voice, Alana praises her dog. She's been very well behaved despite being kenneled two times a week for the last month or so, usually whenever she stays over at Hannibal's. She would love to have Applesauce stay with them, but she doesn't think she's ready to broach the subject of pets or a more formal staying-over arrangement. She knows of at least one person who wouldn't mind looking after one more dog, on occasion, but she knows that can't happen. Not anymore.

Alana sighs heavily and unclips Applesauce from her leash, letting the dog run freely around the yard, her paws kicking up fluffy snow as she runs. A squirrel seems to have caught her eye, causing Applesauce to bolt over to large tree in the middle of the yard. The dog places her paws on the tree and stands on her hind legs, barking and searching for the dastardly squirrel.

Alana stands, brushing ice and snow off of her knees. She rubs her gloved hands together and watches her dog, although her thoughts aren't quite with her in the present moment. She thinks about Will Graham and his dogs, but mostly about Will. She still clings to the hope that there is some good left on him, however wounded it is by the actions he took while at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Will Graham may not technically be a murderer, but in Alana's eyes, he might as well be. He tried to kill Hannibal, and for that, she could never forgive him.

Her mind wanders to the last conversation she had with Will, on a day just like today. Cold and still, fresh snow blanketing the ground. She still remembers the way it crunched softly beneath her boots as she walked toward him, her eyes transfixed on the look of his face. Happiness. Joy. Gratitude. And guilt. She watched Will kneels down, surround by his small pack of strays, not having enough hands to pet them all at once.

\---

_“Welcome home.” Alana followed Will Graham’s pack of strays out of the man’s house._

_Surrounded by dogs, Will looked up at Alana. “Thank you. Thank you for looking after them.” After mentally inventorying the state of his pack, he was satisfied that they were all in good condition and that they were all accounted for, more out of habit than distrust of Alana’s care of them. “They seem happy,” he states._

_“Happy to see you.” Despite the happy reunion that was unfolding in front of her, Alana wasn’t exactly happy to be here. She was glad that Will had been cleared of the Chesapeake Ripper murders, but she couldn’t shake the fact that he couldn’t be held accountable for trying to have Hannibal murdered._

_Having counted one too many wagging tails, Will focused his attention to a new face. This new dog eagerly licked his hand as he scratched behind her ears. “Who’s this?”_

_“Applesauce. She’s mine.” Before Will could question her choice in names, she volunteered an explanation. “She likes applesauce. I rescued her.” She walked closer to Will and the mass of dogs around him, then bent down to Applesauce, clipping her leash to the dog’s collar._

_Will stood and half-heartedly dusted the snow off of his legs, “Picking up some of my bad habits?”_

_“Picking up your good habits.” A beat passed before she dared to speak again. She had wanted so much to be Will Graham’s friend, not just another psychiatrist that simply wanted to poke around in his head. She wasn’t so sure so could still do that, knowing what Will Graham had almost accomplished. “You challenged my whole framework of assumptions about the way you are. The way I think you are. ”_

_“Well, the way you think I am isn’t always a reliable guide to who I am._

_“I was wrong about you.”_

_“Because you didn’t believe me? Or in me?” Will could feel a tingle of resentment building in his chest. He wanted to forgive her. He really had. Instead, he shrugged in feigned indifference. “Because you let me question my sanity? My sense of reality?”_

_“Because you tried to kill Hannibal. You’re wrong about him, Will.” She looked right into his eyes, knowing well what eye contact did to him. She wanted him to feel how betrayed she felt by what he did._

_“No, you’re wrong about him, Alana. You see the best in him. I...don’t.” Will looked away and knelt down, petting Winston vigorously, avoiding Alana’s gaze._

_“What was done to you doesn’t excuse what you did. Are you going to try to hurt Hannibal again? Is he safe?”_

_Will’s hands on Winston stopped as he looked up at Alana’s question. He saw her apprehension. What surprised and shocked him the most is what he_ felt _radiating from Alana. She loved Hannibal. Will’s own heart felt as if it were made of lead and sunk straight into the pit of his stomach._

_“From me or for you?”_

_She answered his question without saying a word. Her love for Hannibal shone in her eyes without her realizing it. This did not sit well with Will at all. Will stood and looked at Alana. “He’s dangerous, Alana. I suggest you stay as far away from. Hannibal Lecter as you can.”_

_Will left Alana standing in the middle of his yard, as he whistled for his pack to follow him inside._

\---

Alana is brought back to the present by the sound of her cell phone ringing in her coat pocket. She reaches into her pocket for her phone and sees that it’s Hannibal. She’s already smiling by the time she removes her glove to answer the call. “Hey you.”

As the call goes on, her smiles slowly fades. One of Hannibal’s patients is in crisis and needs a late appointment with him tonight, so he has to cancel plans with her for dinner. No, it’s alight, she understands completely, and yes, they can have dinner at her place tomorrow night. 

When she gets off the phone, she can’t help but look up at the overcast sky, blinking away a few tears. Jeez, it’s only dinner, why in the world is she getting weepy over something so trivial? It’s been a long, trying week of grading papers and consulting on few cases at the BAU, and maybe she’s a little more worn out than she thought. She’s feeling exhausted all of a sudden, so perhaps a night in at home might be what she needed anyway.

She calls Applesauce over, walking up the icy walkway to her front porch, her delightful mutt at her heels. A fire, some wine, and her dog sound very nice indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for taking so long to post in between chapters. Real life has the terrible habit of getting in the way of my fangirling over Hannibloom. It's also the end of the school year and final exams for my students don't write themselves.
> 
> Also, If anyone is interested in helping me proofread my crappy writing for this fic, you can totes contact me on my Tumblr: hannibals-redsweater


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd; all mistakes are my own.
> 
> If you're interested in possibly looking over future chapters of this story, or talking about anything Hannibloom (or Hannibal/Anyone) related with me, hit me up on Tumblr: 
> 
> hannibals-redsweater

Her quiet evening at home turns out how she would have least expected. Instead of enjoying a glass of wine while catching up on the latest psychiatric journals, with Applesauce at her side, Alana spends the better part of her evening feeling absolutely miserable. If she isn’t curled up in bed, her eyes closed tightly against the overwhelming nausea and dizziness, she’s kneeling helplessly next to the toilet, tears streaming down her face as she dry heaves a few more times with no result.

During one of the few moments she isn’t incapacitated by whatever the fuck is wrong with her, she manages to crawl out of bed in her rumpled, flannel pajamas, and goes downstairs to the kitchen. She rummages through her pantry, all the while racking her brain. It couldn’t be anything that she ate for lunch, if something as innocuous as an apple with almond butter passed for lunch. With a heavy sigh, she notes that for an adult, she was surprisingly inept at looking after herself whenever her schedule became more hectic than usual. Hunger can cause nausea and lightheadedness, right? She doesn’t think it’s the flu; she’s always sure to get her flu shot, and besides, she’d be feeling a whole lot worse if it were, if it’s even possible to feel worse than she does now. Standing on her tiptoes, she finally comes across some peppermint tea and a jar of her favorite local honey. 

After she puts the kettle on, she sits on a stool by the counter, lost in her own thoughts. Out of all the things that could possibly be wrong with her, there’s one reason that she’s actively avoiding thinking about. She’s been on the pill for years. On the rare occasions that she has missed a dose, she wasn’t having sex anyway. Efficacy rates are at 99.9% percent, leaving, what, a .1% chance of being ineffective? There’s a risk in everything anyone does, ever. It’s a fact of life, for fucks sake. 

But what if?

When the kettle begins to whistle, Alana jumps, startled out of her reverie. She hurriedly gets off of her stool and makes her way to the stove, carefully lifting the kettle, and pouring piping-hot water into an oversized mug. As the tea steeps, Alana leans against the counter, her arms crossed protectively against her chest.

She can’t be pregnant. There’s no way. She and Hannibal haven’t even talked about what their relationship _is_ , let alone about having children. She doesn’t think having a family is for her anyway. She’s too busy with work to have a family. She’s too busy to seriously date anyone, and almost too busy for her current fling with Hannibal. And besides, she comes from a large, very Catholic, French-Canadian family, so she has plenty of nieces and nephews to satisfy any maternal urges that come up now and then. She’s content with the way her life is now. 

After a few minutes, she retrieves a package of saltines from the pantry, not really caring at this point that she can’t remember when they were purchased. Sitting down at the counter again, she sips her steaming tea gingerly and nibbles on a few crackers. There’s only one way to confirm her suspicions, but before she can drive anywhere, she needs to eat something and settle her stomach. Fainting in the “Family Planning” aisle of her local drugstore isn’t she something she plans on doing anytime soon.

\---

It’s stress. It’s exhaustion. It’s fear. It could be any of those things. After putting more thought into the situation, she realizes that her period is indeed, late. Not by much, only a week and a half, but she should have noticed something was off a whole lot sooner.

She paces in worriedly in her bathroom, barely able to contain her anxiety. Alana hears a dejected whine come from the other side of the bathroom door. It’s Applesauce, wanting to get in, but the thought having anybody else with her at this moment made her uncomfortable. Hell, even having to have this type of moment as a responsible, grown woman is uncomfortable. In college, she had friends who had pregnancy scares, but she was always too careful and too responsible for that to happen to her. Now here she is, at the ripe old age of 34, waiting with bated after peeing on a plastic stick. 

The alarm beeps on her phone, letting her know that the required three minutes have passed, yet she can’t bring herself to even look at the test. If she looks, that means that she’s acknowledging that this is really happening. If this is really, truly happening, then she is most likely pregnant. If she’s pregnant, well, then she has no fucking clue what she’s going to do. Or what she’s going to tell Hannibal.

She takes a tentative glance toward the bathroom counter, reaching out to pick up the stick. She hadn’t realized that her eyes were shut until she had to open them to study the test in her hand.

There are two, very distinct and unmistakably clear, pink lines on the test’s tiny plastic window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay! And sorry that this is so short, but I've had a hard time writing anything lately ;_;
> 
> I'm still not sure where this story is going, just kind of flying by the seat of my sexy Hannibloom pants, so if there's anything you would like to see, let me know! I'm open to suggestions!
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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